


"Eternal Retribution" A Marble Hornets Crossover

by smelt



Series: Second Resolve [1]
Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Marble Hornets
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Gore, Disturbing Themes, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Schizophrenia, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25028953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smelt/pseuds/smelt
Summary: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 2019, 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 10 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘺Timothy "Tim" Wright is living as best as he can, which is barely. The only other person left around is  Jessica Locke, who's extremely worried for her friends' mental state. But to Jessica dismay, Tim absolutely refuses to open up, his resolve to not to let anyone else share his fate.Tobias "Toby" Rogers, a 16 year-old who tries, despite drawing the short end of the mental state stick, to keep his life as normal as possible. 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦He does his best to keep his life on a basic schedule, but when his usual venturing into the nearby park goes wrong in nearly every way, he finds himself in someone else's proverbial hell.Despite everything, Timothy's resolve shatters after meeting an old college friend, and his past creeps up, this time not for him, but a very unlucky little brother. Join Tim and his new friends while he tries to scavenger the broken pieces of his past, unaware of the hell he's causinguntil it's far too late.-----------------
Series: Second Resolve [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812493
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	"Eternal Retribution" A Marble Hornets Crossover

**Author's Note:**

> P L E A S E R E A D  
> ___________________  
> Start Date: 11/21/2019  
> Updated: 7/1/2020  
> \-----------------  
> Trigger Warning For Drug Use, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Schizophrenia, PTSD- Post Dramatic Stress Disorder, Blood and Gore, Manipulation,  
> Descriptions of Injury, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking and/or other mature themes.
> 
> \- Different trigger warnings apply to different chapters and some only come up in certain chapters, but these do happen, some more often than others. Please read with this in mind as this gets dark even in early chapters, though it varies chapter to chapter-
> 
> This is NOT a ship and/or paring between Toby and Tim
> 
> This is an AU that involves some headcanons, however, it is nothing too different from both of the original sources.
> 
> Marble Hornets owned by Tim Sutton  
> Ticci Toby owned by Kastoway
> 
> Creepypastas are horror-related legends or images that have been copied and pasted around the Internet. So I do NOT just refer to them as "Pastas".

##  **_“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”_ **

##  **_― Plato_ **

\------------------------------------------------------------

"Ngh.." He groaned as he slowly begins to grow conscious, mind foggy from a dream that he didn't quite to recollect 

Timothy Wright hesitantly opened his blurry eyes to the tan ceiling then immediately shut them the second he felt the constant wave of the mid-day sun and what was most definitely going to end up a migraine later that day filled his senses. He pauses for a few moments as a dim, amber shine from the open window showering over his bed and onto his face, causing him to blink a few times. He puts his hand over his eyes in a vain attempt to block out the light and ventures to move, causing himself to psychically cringe as his body feels like pins and needles. The firm, stiff mattress not helping the sensation as he grunts and shuffles around, despite his body yelling in protest.

_and my god_

_does his body felt_ **_sore._ **

it̶ ̶always̶ ̶does̶

"Mn, damn it" He keened, much louder then necessarily before he turned onto his back and propping himself up with his arms as a preparation to get up, flinging the thin maroon blanket to the side knocking off his dirty, uncased pillow onto the brown hardwood floor in the processes with a quiet _thunk_.

not̶ ̶that̶ ̶anyone̶ ̶can̶ ̶hear̶ ̶him̶ ̶anyway̶

Deliberately jolting himself out of mind, Tim steeled himself with a grimace and slowly but surely, began to sit up. As he steadily tosses his legs to the side of his stiff mattress, it doesn't take long before he almost instantaneously jolting back down with a small yelp, his body nearly falling back from the sudden movement on the cardboard mattress before he sticks his arms out to catch himself with a grunt. 

Tim hesitates and closes his eyes with a sigh, battling his thoughts on whether or not he genuinely wants to get up. In all honesty, he just wanted to go back to sleep, but being alone with his subconscious is a crippling fear that heavily overpowered all of his exhaustion. Despite himself, he decided he no longer wanted to sulk with his thoughts anymore. Tim went against himself as stood up off his mattress shakily. 

_I feel like I got hit by a semi-truck_ He resolved and began to run his hand through his hair, cringing as he felt grease and pulling knots at the same time until he removed his hand.

After moving his hand from his hair to rubbing his eyes he subconsciously glanced around the room, a deep part of him almost yearning he was back in his apartment, but of course, he wasn't.

The room he **was** in was worst than any room in your average hotel he has ever stayed in for a long time.

What he now called his bedroom was a very obviously dated room, Its interior is old and looks like it came out of the '60s, but appears less like a hotel room and more like a cramped, dim and cave. The colorful, yellow shaded wallpaper has long since dulled and began to peel, the flower pattern almost unrecognizable by now. The cheap rusted metal-framed bed was painted canary brown to fit into the room with a narrow strip of a carpet matt graying underneath it. To the left of the bed was a window layered in aging with dead bugs and dust, covered by twenty-something-year-old mustard yellow net curtains swaying mysteriously in the shadows. To the far right of the room, his coca colored chest of drawers were all open, despite having almost nothing in them. Dirt encrusted in the parts of the wallpaper that was peeling off the wall near the dented floorboards.

Probably by far the worst motel he's ever stayed in, then again with his money, or lack o thereof, there isn't much of an option anymore.

With a small trip, he started to stumble across the dented, tawny hardwood floor to the door. Sleep still clogging his mind, the empty bottles scattering the floor doesn't seem to register with him.

_until he slipped_

"ugh, I feel li- oOH S **HI** \--"

In an instant, as though the universe decided that his headache wasn't bad enough; he could feel his face French-kissed the floor with enough grace to get a 10 in the Olympics if he was going off a diving board. He shut his eyes as he attempted to stop the pulsing in the back of his head. 

After an uncertain amount of time and a grunt of discomfort, he slowly sat back up and rubbed his face. Not the highlight of his morning, but at least its the weekend, though it's not like he has work today or school.

Not that he would want to think about his shitty jobs

Or just think of his college days in general.

Not wanted to open that dark metaphorical can of worms, Tim decided to just focused on getting up off the disgusting floor, using the rumbling from his stomach as motivation.

After a moment he riposted himself once again. With a colorful amount of swears, even for him, he barely pulled himself off the floor and steadily stumbled out his bedroom door and down the stairs to get to the hotel's main lobby.

As he sauntered down to the lobby floor, the old stairs creaked and moaned as he walked down, barely able to do so without tripping over himself into another graceful face plant. He'd trudge into what turned out to be the publicly used kitchen, publicly said definitely with quotations because it looks like the last time someone properly used the kitchen was back before health codes were a thing.

Then again its no surprise considering the room barely even looks like one though. 

More like a meth lab or something, like some straight out of Breaking-Bad.

As Tim slowly walked to the somewhat rustic fridge he wonders if the kitchen was cleaned this decade. Whether before or after it was diminished to this state that the motel is now may never be known. And frankly, Tim is too tired to figure it out. Tim reaches to the, what he called the; to-warm-to put-actual-cold-food-in-there- fridge and let out a semi-loud yawn and stretch. He'd grab the barely hanging on, rusty handle and open the fridge. The fridge opened with a loud creak and Tim just to stare at the inside in defeat, as though his stare could will food to appear. The so-called fridge is empty except for a cucumber, which is either sour cream or rotten yogurt and a single can of tuna. The light in said fridge barely flickering as Tim let go of the handle in defeat and stood back up.

Tim would turn to the old black, analog clock hanging on the pasty white wall right above the Carrara marble countertop and look at the time.

"10:45. Ah. Damn." He'd mumble to himself in realization.

_I slept in_

**_again._ **

He'd sigh, already exasperated.

"Eh, I guess its time to go grocery shopping, anyway." He'd reason with himself in defeat as he walked out the kitchen doorway. He opened an old creaky window, the hinges on the brown panes squeaking as he opens it by what was to be assumed as a dining area and take a deep breath of fresh air in to clear his mind. While doing so, however, he got a scent of booze and what Tim genuinely thought literal honest-to-god death would smell like if it had a smell.

_Okay, that caught me off guard._

He decides to take a smell of himself to see if he was full of shit or if he, for lack of better phrasing, smelled like it.

After nearly gagging at the over the immense overwhelming stench of regret and past poor life decisions; something Tim does _very_ often

He realizes he is **not**.

_I guess I must have gotten wasted last night._ He paused for a moment, trying to put the pieces together in his burry subconscious.

_I would explain why I'm still in the jeans. No shirt though-whats_ _is up with that?_ He'd question, before just deciding to shrug it off for the moment. The growing headache filling too much of his mind to even attempt to remember.

"Fucking hell" He'd say with a dry, empty chortle, devoid of any actual amusements and just his usual self-loathing as ran a palm down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with desperation.

Moving his hands off and down his face, he then begins walking up the creaky old hazel stairs to his room. Slamming open the door as a dramatic flair for no literally one and begin going through the pile of clothes to find something somewhat decent to go out in.

_I should probably at least take a shower before I go out again._ He realized while as he was pulling out a dark blue t-shirt with grey stripes on the sleeve. 

it would have to do.

He gave out a long, drawn-out a sigh

"Hopefully, there's a bit of hot god damn water this time" He'd mumble the last part to himself and picked up whatever pare of pants was next to the old shirt. The pants were a wrinkled pare of dark blueish-grey jeans.

He stood up after a moment and tiredly drifted to what could barely be considered a bathroom and not a dumpster with tile floors. The bathroom in question was old a corroded, mold plastered the corners and walls. That, and it honestly smelled almost repugnant due to the god-awful plumbing.

He looked at himself in the mirror, his dark brown hair was greasy and went in every other which way. Taking a closer look he realizes he is skinnier then he last remembers. The bags under his eyes make it look like he walked out of a Marilyn Manson concert, though that's nothing new.

What was _new_ though is his beard he is growing out. Whether it was him wanting a beard or just to constantly exhausted to try shaving was up in the air at this point. He'd force himself to look away, the longer he looks, the deeper the pit in his stomach grows. He'd glance tiredly at the _bottles and bottles_ of pills on the counter instead. Picking one up one of the orange bottles, he pops off the cap and slides two white pills into his palm. He sips some water from a plastic, red cup at the side of the sink and swallows two.

After years of taking pills, it's not an issue anymore to swallow pills with a small amount of water. Though, he's is surprised he somehow nearly managed to forget to take them this morning. He turns the faucet to the shower and let the water run for a moment, then carefully steps in. Feeling the warm water on his face he can't help but to close his eyes and let out a sigh of content. After a minute he grabs a small bottle of shampoo he swiped from the dollar store, despite his mental objections. Tim rubs the soap on his hands and rubs it through his hair, loosening the knots, and begins scrubbing. After a few minutes, he drops his head into the water and closes his eyes. As he's keeping his eyes closed, he couldn't help but think there's something in the bathroom with him. it doesn't take long for the soap to wash out of his hair, but to him, it feels like hours. He hates feeling like this. He feels a sense of resolve.

it doesn't last long

His thoughts cut off when he remembers what happens when he tries to change.

I̶t̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶e̶n̶d̶ ̶u̶p̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶h̶u̶r̶t̶.̶

He'd step out the shower and stare at the counter with the realization that he left his clothes in his room. He glared at the countertop for almost a minute, as if that's going to make the clothes magically appear. After a long sigh, he gives up on trying to will the clothes to his bathroom and picks up his towel off the floor.

With a towel wrapped around his waist, he'd leave the door open out of habit as he left the bathroom and walked back into the room. He'd grab the dark blue t-shirt and the old pair of pants with a grumble, as though it was the clothes fault for him leaving it in the bathroom. He takes another glance at the clothes with the realization that they didn't match, at all.

It's not his best but then again, he was never one to dress to impress, was he?

Tim put on the clothes and carefully walked down the creaky stairs once again and glances at what's left of the front desk while he slips on his worker's boots and bends over to tie them. Right before he leaves he checks his pockets for his phone, wallet, and keys. After confirming his mental checklist, he opens the old hazel oak door and steps out. Tim closes the door with a sharp _click_ and turns back around. He stands in a decrepit parking lot, cracks litter the concrete with weeds growing out. As he steps he hears the sound of paper under his feet. Looking down, he realizes with apprehension that the paper was a familiar pink piece of paper under his food. Tim hesitantly picks it up with a growing lump in his throat. Without reading it over he shoves it in his back jean pocket, deciding to leave that to future Tim.

"Well," he begins with a sigh; shoving his hands in his pockets and beginning to walk forward with a single goal in mind

## "Here we go."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading the first chapter! I've been sitting on this for a while, and I wasn't sure if I should post this but went ahead who decided to go do it. I really hope yall like it, I appreciate all comments and kudos, as well as criticism. I will update it as soon as I can. I know this crossover has been done many times but I wanted to come up with something new with this crossover. I know it seems bad on paper but I wanted to try to do a creepypasta fan-story as professionally as I can.
> 
> Till next time  
> -smeltzie


End file.
